LOVING HIM WAS RED (s.riley)
Your boyfriend watches you get ready for a wedding
Warnings: fluff, desi! reader, half-desi half-white simon, simon in a KURTA oh god, soooo soft, mentions of marriage
A/N: my favourite white boy in a kurta erm yes actually give me eleven more thank u. more simon works coming in the future <3
Simon stands in his kurta leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, just watching you.
You’re seated at your vanity, slipping a silver jhumka into place. You're wearing a salwar kameez that matches his kurta, it drapes down your waist, light and delicate, the silver embroidery catching every bit of light as though it’s alive. The soft icy blue complements your skin, and as you lift your arms, your bangles clink—soft, familiar, home.
You see him in the reflection, in his own shade of soft blue, almost the color of monsoon sky just before rain, the silver threadwork glinting when he shifts. The fabric sits broad across his shoulders, the sleeves rolled just once, neat and intentional, showing the cords of his forearms. His hair is still damp from his shower, brushed back, though a single tuft refuses cooperation. A chain glints at his collarbone. He’s smiling. The small, private kind he almost never lets people see. The kind that isn’t for the world.
You blink, "Si," you murmur. He's in a soft blue kurta, almost the color of monsoon sky just before rain, the silver threadwork glinting when he shifts. The fabric sits broad across his shoulders, the sleeves rolled just once, neat and intentional, showing the cords of his forearms. His hair is still damp from his shower, brushed back, though a single tuft refuses cooperation. A chain glints at his collarbone. "You put the kurta on," you murmur with a small smile. "It looks good on you."
He shakes his head, eyes dropping for a second like he’s been caught. Embarrassed. You’ve seen him in combat gear, in tactical planning, in rage, in grief—but this small moment of bashful softness is something entirely in its own, something that exists in between the soft melody of Hindi drifting from your laptop and the smell of lavendar of your shared home.
“Nah,” he mutters, voice low, rough. “You, though? You look—" he exhales, tongue dragging over his teeth. "Just fuckin' gorgeous.”
“You look good too, Si," you laugh softly.
Simon huffs, like he doesn’t quite believe you, like you’re teasing him—but when he looks at you again, there’s that warmth, that softness, as though the world could end and he’d still be standing right here. “Do a lil twirl for me then,” he mutters, chin tilting up.
Your face heats, but you stand anyway. The fabric sways around your ankles, silver patterns shimmering. Simon’s eyes track every movement, like he’s memorizing the way the rhinestones catch the light, the shimmer of the soft silver threadwork, the sheer dupatta drapped around you. You look ethereal, dreamlike, the softest kind of beauty.
“Beautiful,” Simon murmurs. “Just bloody beautiful.”
You step closer, heart fluttering. He pulls you in by the waist, instinctive, gentle but firm, like you’re something precious. The soft Bollywood music playing off your laptop fills the room—something sweet, old, the kind that swells and sighs. You rest your chin over his shoulder, your bangles clicking in rhythm with your steps. He sways—not quite dancing, but close enough. His breath is warm where it touches your temple.
“You ready for my cousin’s wedding?” you ask, voice soft in the space between his neck and the collar of his kurta, the smell of his cologne, spicy and clean clinging to him.
Simon hums. “Don’t expect me to get up an’ dance though.”
Your quiet laugh vibrates against his chest. “Noted.”
One of his hands rises and finds yours, fingers sliding between yours, guiding your palm to his jaw. You stroke the faint stubble there—warm, real, grounding. His thumb traces over the henna patterns he'd drawn on your hand a few days ago, eyes narrowed and focused, henna cone between his calloused fingers as you watched with a small fond smile as he worked on giving you the prettiest patterns he could make from hands that have only known war. The patterns curl and bloom like vines, deep red stain, and hidden amongst them—S.R.
His initials that's he'd hidden between flowers and vines, a small secret that only the two of you know.
His thumb lingers there, tracing over the small letters tucked away like a secret, like a whisper.
“Reckon mum would’ve been happy,” Simon says softly, voice barely audible over the music. “Seein’ me like this.”
Your chest tightens—not painful, but deep, tender, the way it always aches when he talks about his mum or childhood.
“In the kurta?” you ask softly, thumb stroking his jaw and he nods.
“Wore one a couple times as a kid," he murmurs as you guys sway gently to the soft swells and dreamy sound of Maula Mere Maula. "When we went over to my nana’s place. Stopped after she died though.”
The vulnerability in his tone is rare—gentle in a way he never lets the world hear. You run your fingers through his dark blond hair, slow, careful.
“Think she would’ve loved to see you like this,” you say softly.
Simon finally looks at you. Really looks. The grey of his eyes softens—storm clouds parting, letting the light in.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly—it’s barely more than a breath.
Your heart flips, ridiculous and helpless even after all this time you've been with him.
He turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to your palm—soft, reverent.
“You look beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “Like a fuckin’ princess.”
Simon doesn’t tell you the other things—the soft things he wonders about when it's quiet: the idea of you draped in red for once instead of blue, in a sari the same shade of the string he's convinced has tied him to you since he was born and took his first breath, leading him to you. That he imagines slipping a ring onto your finger, standing next to you under strings of marigolds and jasmine, petals drifting down like even they believe you're the sun.
The idea that for the first time in years, he thinks about his future and it doesn’t feel like a battlefield.
That when he sees red now he doesn't think of blood—he thinks of your favourite bangles, of your lipstick and smile pressed to his jaw hidden like a secret only he gets to know, of your henna staining your hands in beautiful patterns that curl over your palms and hug your fingers. That watching the stain darken over the days, deepen into a color like pomegranate seeds or summer sunsets—makes something in him aches. Makes him envious, wishing he could stain himself on you, to stay with you, linger on you in a way that's visible, undeniable, beautiful, even if it were to only last a few weeks. He swore to himself he'd never let your hands be stained with blood like his—only henna, only ever henna.
But he doesn’t say any of this. Simon doesn’t know how to, not without handing you his heart and hoping you don’t notice how bruised the thing is. So instead, he just draws you closer. Lets his eyes fall shut. Sways with you to the slow, old melody playing softly from your laptop speaker. Lets the love, heavy, tender and achingly red, settle between you.
thank you for reading! - my other works - © leclercloveletters 2025. all rights reserved. please do not upload elsewhere or copy
